Moving

My chest tightens and my stomach lurches when I see empty cardboard boxes with the three inevitable questions on them: whose box is it, what’s in it, and where does it go? And yet, as much as I hate moving, I’ve done it all too often. There were those three apartments in Philadelphia when I was at Penn for grad school. There were two condos in Center City after school, when I was working in King of Prussia. Then there was the townhouse in New Hope, the rental house in Boca Raton, the ranch in Fort Lauderdale near the beach, and the Four Seasons condo. Now there’s another rental house, this time in Atlanta, and I’m contemplating the next step – buying a condo in Atlanta, but snow-birding it with Florida.

And I still open those boxes and pack things into them. What am I thinking, each time, when I willingly pick up and leave? It means packing all the china (three sets) and glassware (137 pieces), not to mention packing the artwork (45 pieces) and having the piano moved. And packing up all the books (657, half hardback, half paperback), plus videotapes, CDs, DVDs, etc.

And when haven’t even gotten into the kitchen, but you get the general idea. I’ve got lots of shit, can’t really bear the thought of standing up and moving again from point A to point B. Why can’t I just sit still, long enough to get settled and breathe in place for more than just five minutes?